


the leftovers of war

by Wind_Writes



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Memories, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Royai Week, Royai Week 2020, They Walk Through Hell Together, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Writes/pseuds/Wind_Writes
Summary: Wounds are a part of the uniform for a solider. Some mar the skin, some the soul and it's a battle of wills to make it through the night when the stories of those wounds come creeping back.(Day 3 "Old Wounds"- Royai Week 2020)
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	the leftovers of war

Ask any soldier and they’ll have at least one old wound to tell you about.

Most will probably rub the damaged area and tell you it smarts from time to time, maybe even claim they can tell you what the weather will be based on the type of pain, but they are otherwise indifferent to it. The risk of their chosen career path they’d say. There is no shame associated with the wound, but neither is there a sense of achievement. It is simply a marring of the skin that they live with day to day and, most of the time, never give much thought to. Not proud nor ashamed, they simply continue to live their lives with little thought of their scars. 

Some will talk of their wound with great enthusiasm, proud of what they had to do to earn it and wear the damage as a badge of honor. The injury defines who they are; they stand strongly behind those responsible for putting them on the path to earn such a distinction and anything they achieve after the fact will be compared to what it was like to be injured in battle.

A select group of individuals, one rarely acknowledged by the establishment, will refuse to talk about the old wounds. They are the soldiers that carry the damage with disgust, embarrassed by the fact there was proof of their participation in such a campaign.

Some wear the proof on the outside in the shape of a scar or missing limb, forced to see, on a daily basis, what they’d done. It left them open to others' questions and speculations about how they came to wear such a badge. For others, however, the proof was on the inside. An invisible scar they would wear silently, battled silently, and cursed the existence of when they found themselves alone, in the middle of the night, with nothing but the wound for company. 

Roy shifted, pushing himself up and untangled from the sheets that had wound around his legs in his thrashing. Careful not to wake the woman beside him, Roy ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair. He tried to clear his mind of the memories that woke him, their lingering effects leaving his skin clammy and mouth dry, but they still persisted despite his wakefulness.

Nights had been peaceful for him the last few months and being thrown back into his nightmarish past left Roy feeling as if the healing he’d just started was tumbling from his grasp once more. He was no doctor, but what he did know of medicine was in order for a wound to heal, a person had to leave the injury alone, and yet, his seemed to be ripped back open whenever he was least expecting it. 

Palms pressed against his eyes, Roy inhaled deeply as the nightmarish images danced once more in his mind. The sound of gunfire echoed in his ears, it’s repetitive hum drowning out the sound of the screams coming from the innocent the bullets ripped through. The scent of brimstone and sweat still lingered in his nose and the image of bodies piled amongst rubble, skin stained crimson and complexion waxy and pale, passed across his vision. 

It wasn’t long before the sound of gunfire was replaced by the wails of children standing over the corpses of their parents and the image of elderly citizens drenched in blood and dazed as buildings exploded around them and tanks moved in to clear the streets. 

The faces of soldiers flashed across his conscious memory, some of them as disheveled and disheartened as he while others showed little concern about the orders they followed. That was a soldier's duty after all; follow the orders and never question those above you.

It all made Roy’s blood run cold and a sheen of sweat breakout across his skin. He’d joined up hoping to make the world a better place, use the alchemy he’d learned to help others, but all he’d brought with him was death; death and distraction to a race that had deserved none of it, and what was worse was he’d been branded a hero for it. A hero for commiting genocide. The idea made bile rise in his throat.

This was the part of war no one ever talked about, the nightmares, the panic attacks, the sleepless nights. Sometimes he thought this was the worst part of war, having to relive everything he’d done in the past. He’d be a fool if he didn’t admit death would have been easier, there was nothing to answer for when you’re dead, but death would mean leaving people behind.

Chancing a glance, Roy studied the blonde stretched out beside him. Death would have meant leaving her behind.

Hair spread out over her pillow and back facing him, Roy had enough moonlight to make out the red ink her father had burdened her with… and the burn marks he had scared her with. His chest ached thinking back to that fateful night; what he would give to not have to have that memory rolling around in his head. 

The crimes he had committed in Ishval, as haunting as they were, struck differently than the image of burns forming on Riza’s back. Those were personal. The damage he’d caused was something that would have never happened if he had kept his promise to use her father’s work for good; she could have been spared the hurt had it not been for him.

Those marks were just once more sin he’d committed.

He knew, better than most, that those weren’t the only wounds Riza saddled herself with. They were just another card in this messed up hand he’d inadvertently dealt her.

Much like him, the faces of Ishval haunted her in the hours of sleep. In his opinion, she’d gotten the worst of the cards in being a sniper. Unlike an alchemist, where death was indiscriminate in war, a sniper had to look on each target before pulling the trigger. They were forced to see life drain from a target’s eye with each round, and Riza was still renowned as one of the best in the Ishval campaign. 

On more than one occasion, Roy had found himself shaking her from some night terror that left her screaming, or had woken to an empty bed because she was living out her insomnia in the kitchen with a cup of tea, unwilling to risk having to see the faces of those she’d killed should she sleep. 

The tortured look she wore all through Ishval still plagued Roy’s mind. She had been too young, too naive to have been thrown into war like that. She should have stayed back at the academy with Catalina and Havoc, spared having to shoulder the genocide of a race that hadn’t deserved it.

“Everything ok, Roy?” Riza asked, her voice cutting through the darkness and interrupting his thoughts. 

There was no hint of sleep or confusion in her voice, a sign that she’d been awake for some time. Knowing her, she’d been up as long as he had and was simply giving him time to process. 

Roy huffed, he shouldn’t be surprised; it was hard to hide demons when the person right beside you was fighting the exact same ones. 

“Just an old wound acting up,” he admitted, reluctantly.

There was a moment of silence between them before the sheets shifted and he felt her arm snake across his stomach, hand resting against his scared side and head resting against his chest as her legs tangled with his beneath the covers. She didn’t tell him it would be ok because she knew better. She didn’t offer any words of encouragement because she knew they would fall on deaf ears. In that moment, with only silence and darkness around them, Roy knew there was something to be said about walking through the trenches with someone else who’d been there.

Grateful for her subtle comfort, Roy kissed the top of Riza’s head and ran a hand idly through her long locks as he settled back against the headboard and her hand made nonsensical shapes up and down his side. As his mind focused on her steady breathing and the comforting feel of her body pressed against his, Roy felt his muscles begin to relax and pain in his chest begin to fade. Whether they were in the throes of a war, buried behind a mountain of paperwork or hiding from the world together in a dark bedroom, Riza had the touch that none other had been able to give him and Roy said a silent thanks to whoever was listening for bringing her into his life all those years ago.

This wouldn’t be the last time Riza would have to comfort him in the middle of the night and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was pulling her from another night terror, but it wouldn’t be like this forever. The wounds they both carried were still raw, oozing and slow to heal, even after all these years, but in time, with a little bit of patience, he knew they wouldn’t hurt forever as long as they stuck together.

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for Royai Week Prompt #3: Old Wounds. I had been hoping to get something a little bit longer out, but alas between a frazzled brain and a fussy baby this is all I could manage. Cross posted to my Tumblr (worriestothewind).


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